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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000701">Untitled Goat Game</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hark_bananas/pseuds/Hark_bananas'>Hark_bananas</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault'>whatthefoucault</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Agricultural Fairs, Bucky's feelings, Doreen Green (mentioned) - Freeform, Food, Goat Farm, Goats, Hijinks &amp; Shenanigans, M/M, Minor En Dwi Gast | Grandmaster/Loki, Natasha Romanov (mentioned) - Freeform, New York City, Pie, Sheep, Spider-Man (mentioned) - Freeform, Therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:21:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hark_bananas/pseuds/Hark_bananas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A therapy goat, he thought. It was all Bucky could do to keep his eyebrows from furrowing into one megabrow. "Seriously?"</p><p> </p><p>  <i>... in which, despite being entirely at home in the big city, Bucky finds himself experiencing a pang of nostalgia for the little herd of goats he looked after back in Wakanda.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>161</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here we are, it's my written entry for (Not) Another Stucky Big Bang! Massive thanks have go to the incredible Kit Bananas for being an incredible artist to work with, and for so patiently putting up with my months and months of panicked creative inertia. I AM NOT WORTHY.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>“Oh jesus, it fuckin’ stinks in here.” Bucky fanned his hand through the air as he stepped into the apartment, knowing entirely well it would do nothing to dispel the stale-house funk. “Get the windows open, quick.”</p>
<p>“It’s just a little stale,” countered Steve, “can we at least set our bags down first?”</p>
<p>“Did we leave anything out in the kitchen?” Bucky kicked out of his tightly-laced hiking shoes with a soft grunt, the relief that came with being safe and in sock feet almost immediately giving way, once more, to the smell.</p>
<p>“I’m sure we put the leftovers away,” replied Steve, dropping his overnight bag onto the sofa with a heavy plop. “And we got breakfast on the road.”</p>
<p>“Uhh, Steve,” said Bucky, noticing the stack of tupperwares on the kitchen counter, “remember how you packed a picnic for the drive up?”</p>
<p>“Oh god.” Steve’s shoulders sunk, as though he had just been punched in the stomach by a mid-tier henchman. “We forgot the picnic.”</p>
<p>Bucky stared down at the once tempting array of stale artisan bread, an assortment of mushy berries, a little vine of organic cherry tomatoes that were probably fine, a bottle of lemonade which thankfully had a best before date of several months away as long as it remained unopened, and most disappointingly of all,</p>
<p>“Steve, the 18-month-old cheese.”</p>
<p>“The 18-month-old cheese.” Steve visibly gagged. “I don’t know, bag it up, bag it up, let’s get it out of here!”</p>
<p>While Steve flung open the living room windows, Bucky tore through the less-visited kitchen cupboards: past the paper bag of potatoes that had sprouted before they left and were now close to gaining sentience, past the Japanese floor cleaning wipes neither Steve nor Bucky could figure out how to attach to their weird mop, past the dustpan and brush, past the other dustpan and brush Bucky impulse-bought at Bed, Bath, and Beyond because he could not remember if they owned one, and then. There it was.</p>
<p>An unused canister of Febreze odour-eliminating spray in a signature scent it optimistically called Whispering Woods. As long as it erred more on the side of pine needles and less on the side of bear shit, Bucky truly could not care less what scent it was at this late hour of need.</p>
<p>Steve slid the entire picnic hamper into a nearly-empty plastic garbage bag, sealing it up before Bucky could protest that they could have at least salvaged the lemonade. Instead, he filled the air with a generous spray of the smell of cedar and pine, which mingled with the cheese funk to create an aromatic profile that smelled, at least for the moment, like a basement that needed a good airing out. They retreated to the bedroom, giving the rest of the apartment a few minutes to recover.</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry, Buck,” Steve said softly into Bucky’s neck, arms draped over his shoulders. “That cheese deserved better. I had a sample of it at the store... god, it was so beautiful.”</p>
<p>It was all Bucky could do not to laugh. “Jesus, punk, it’s just a chunk of milk. We can go back to the store.”</p>
<p>Steve sighed. “I know,” he said. “But it was going to be special.”</p>
<p>“Hell, we can get lots of kinds of cheese!” Bucky’s smile burst into an affectionate chuckle. “You can leave some of it on the radiator, or under the bed, back of the closet…”</p>
<p>“All right, all right, I get it!” Steve threw his hands into the air, shimmying out from behind Bucky. “You’re a real wise guy, you know that?”</p>
<p>“I’m not so sure, pal,” Bucky sighed. “I married you, so my wisdom’s definitely still up for debate.”</p>
<p>Steve collapsed face-first back onto the bed, Bucky’s legs pinned beneath him.</p>
<p>“I love you, Buck,” he said, or at least that was what Bucky thought he had heard, muffled by their fluffy duvet.</p>
<p>“Love you too, Stevie,” said Bucky, leaning down, squishing Steve in an awkward pretzel of an embrace. “The cheese didn’t ruin the honeymoon.”</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“So did you see they’ve stopped doing the pear and cardamom jam doughnut? I could legit cry. This, plus that little Mexican bakery that’s been there since the 60s, except it closed down because rent, of course, and now that whole building’s gonna be another fucking Walgreens... what the hell happened to this town?”</p>
<p>Bucky shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong guy.”</p>
<p>Beth sipped loudly at the end of her iced coffee: it was from one of those ubiquitous chains that whizzed them all up in a blender, but never well enough, leaving a very tasty, syrupy sweet first few sips, followed by an impenetrable, tasteless frozen block of ice chips too large to suck through a rapidly disintegrating paper straw. He could see that most of the generous drizzle of caramel sauce had long since adhered itself to the underside of the lid.</p>
<p>“They used to do these little doughnuts that, like...” she gestured animatedly with her hands, as though searching for a word. “They were boring, but they were really good boring, you know?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I think I do.” Bucky had always understood simple things done well. Perhaps, he sometimes wondered, if it stemmed from living through times when simple was all they had, with no rainbow sprinkles under which to hide a disappointingly dense bit of pound cake. Either that, or he had been spoiled by the presence of an exceptionally skilled Grandma during his formative years.</p>
<p>“RIP pear and cardamom jam, though.”</p>
<p>They were twenty minutes into the week’s therapy session and Beth had yet to pivot the conversation away from food. Bucky did not mind. Sometimes, it was good just to talk to someone about something as silly as a goddamn doughnut.</p>
<p>“You know I know how to make jam, right?” he asked her. “And doughnuts. I, I make them for Hanukkah.”</p>
<p>“Oh my god, that’s so rad!” Beth beamed. “When are you gonna set up your own pop up bakery?”</p>
<p>Bucky shook his head fondly. “I don’t think so. Too much attention.”</p>
<p>It was partly through Beth’s own insistence that Bucky was apt to remember that recovery was never a linear path smoothly forwards from Point Trauma to Point 100% Better Forever; indeed, even when better times seemed more normal than otherwise, and bad brain days were fewer and farther between, seeking any kind of attention very much belonged to the Old Bucky, and this Bucky - the one who, as Beth so eloquently put it, had Been Through Some Stuff - still saw attention as too great a risk, and always best avoided.</p>
<p>“In a city full of pop-up bakeries?” she asked him. “Well, then you must know your jam’s good enough to get ’grammed. Maybe you should start paying me in jam.”</p>
<p>“I... how much jam?”</p>
<p>“I’m kidding. Do you know how much rent is on this fucking office? I’m like perpetually thisclose to having to move to, like, Connecticut.”</p>
<p>Bucky gasped. “Oh Beth, no.”</p>
<p>“I know, right?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Bucky was very small, he had dreamed of becoming a park ranger. Growing up in the seemingly endless urban microcosm of New York City, the thought of spending his days among the trees seemed like a wonderful adventure, thrilling and exotic and so different to anything he knew. He imagined himself keeping watch over the trees and all the little animals by day, then retiring to his warm cabin at night to write what would have undoubtedly been very profound books about nature and longing and the moon.</p>
<p>Once, on a rare day off when they were still quite young, before everything, Bucky and Steve went on a fishing trip. It was not far, nor was it especially the wilderness, but it was north of the city and as near as they could find within their limited means of travel. Bucky remembered the look of peace on Steve’s face as he dipped his bare feet into the river, dungarees rolled up almost to his knees. They almost caught one whole fish that day, and sat on the grass under dappled sunlight and ate the corned beef sandwiches Bucky had brought from home. It was as near as Bucky had ever had to a perfect day.</p>
<p>Their honeymoon was so many years and so much life away from that day, but not dissimilar in spirit. It had not been exotic by any means, but nice: the small cabin up in the Finger Lakes had no wifi, but was near enough to a little town that there was always good coffee, and far enough from anything else that they saw deer wandering through their front yard most mornings, tails twitching as they dooted and hopped along on their dainty little legs. Steve looked so peaceful there, laughing as they stripped down to their trunks and had a splash at the bottom of a secluded gorge, skin glistening from the waterfall, and a touch of sun bringing out the freckles that dotted his strong shoulders. They never did get around to going fishing, but did haul home a bumper basket of peaches they picked on a nearby farm. They woke to the sound of birdsong every morning; they drank lemonade and made quiet love. It was good.</p>
<p>It was, for reasons he could not himself explain, just before bedtime on their second-to-last night there, that he had a revelation. It was just after he had heard a terrible clatter outside the kitchen, finding a stunned raccoon attempting to break in, and presumably raid the pantry. The raccoon stared at Bucky. Bucky stared at the raccoon. He half expected the raccoon to say something in its defense, but it simply held up its tiny little hand-paws, and scampered away.</p>
<p>Geraldine, one of the goats Bucky had looked after during his short stay in Wakanda, had often tried to follow him into the kitchen. Bucky missed those stupid little goats.</p>
<p>So it was in no way a selfish decision when Bucky wholeheartedly encouraged Steve to break his no-official-public-appearances rule, just this once, to be a guest judge at a small agricultural fair, where there would no doubt be goats.</p>
<p>(On the other hand, it was doubtless the prospect of sampling a dozen moms’ homemade baked goods that convinced Sam to invite himself along.)</p>
<p>The air was buzzing with that unmistakable farm-smell, mingling with deep overtones of industrial quantities of fried food. The practice of agricultural fair bake-off judging was, it turned out, so shrouded in secrecy and treated with such reverent seriousness that Steve was immediately seconded to a confidential briefing in the judges’ tent, leaving Sam and Bucky to explore the petting zoo in the interim, and probably stuff themselves silly with funnel cake.</p>
<p>“Did you ever talk to your goats, back in Wakanda?” asked Sam, surveying the small gaggle of creatures. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I talked to them,” said Bucky. The animals here were sweet, he thought, though most of them had cornered a young girl who had, perhaps foolishly, purchased three whole cones of animal snacks.</p>
<p>“What kind of things did they say?”</p>
<p>Bucky squinted. “You know... behhh?”</p>
<p>“So you didn’t talk to them, talk to them,” clarified Sam, gently patting a passing alpaca.</p>
<p>“No, I can’t... Sam, they’re goats.”</p>
<p>“Hey, did you try?” suggested Sam. “I can talk to birds. Doreen talks to squirrels. It’s not that weird.”</p>
<p>“It’s pretty weird, Sam,” countered Bucky. Apart from that raccoonish friend from space, and some especially foul-mouthed parrots he had seen on the internet, he knew most people could not actually talk to their animal friends.</p>
<p>“I’m just saying, you know, maybe that’s your thing.” Sam narrowly missed being gently headbutted by a miniature horse. “Maybe you’re Goat-Man.”</p>
<p>Bucky levelled at Sam the most murderous glare he could manage whilst in the company of so many gentle animals. “Don’t call me Goat-Man ever again.”</p>
<p>“Okay, but you’ll never know until you try,” reasoned Sam, attempting to point an especially adorable grey goat in Bucky’s direction.</p>
<p>Maybe Sam had a point, he thought, albeit grudgingly. Bucky looked at the goat. The goat looked at Bucky. Bucky concentrated every centimetre of his focus on one thought: goat. Goat. Goat. Think like a goat. What would a goat want to say?</p>
<p>“Behhh,” he said to the goat.</p>
<p>The goat sneezed, then trotted away.</p>
<p>Bucky turned to Sam, who was rapidly collapsing to the hay-strewn ground, wheezing with laughter.</p>
<p>“What the hell?” he shouted.</p>
<p>“Man, you should have seen your face!” giggled Sam. </p>
<p>Bucky had never hated Sam more than he did in that moment.</p>
<p>“You gotta promise me you’ll never tell anybody about this,” he shouted after the little goat, who paid him absolutely no mind at all.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“Am I allowed to taste the pies?”</p>
<p>“It’s the first thing I asked them.” Steve gave him a solemn nod as they peered into the judging tent, where several long tables were laden with rows of carefully labeled pies. “You can taste the pies, but you’ve gotta keep a poker face about ’em until the judging is done. They don’t want you swaying my highly professional opinion.”</p>
<p>“Highly professional my ass,” snorted Bucky, punching him softly on the arm. “You ever meet a pie you didn’t like?”</p>
<p>“Your 21st birthday,” recalled Steve, gazing dreamily off into the middle distance with that look of sweet joy he had whenever he recounted the Good Old Days. “I made you a key lime pie. It was horrible.”</p>
<p>“It was incredible,” replied Bucky.</p>
<p>Steve scoffed. “You don’t need to say that just because I made it for you, Buck.”</p>
<p>“No, it was though!” insisted Bucky. “It was incredible that you managed to make a pie that was at once completely burnt on the outside and raw on the inside.”</p>
<p>Steve crossed his arms. “Well, at least a judge only has to be good at eating pies, not baking them.”</p>
<p>The judging was an especially serious affair, for what was (at least as far as Bucky could tell) little more than sequentially consuming one’s weight in pastry and then declaring which one was the most delicious. There were pies of all the varieties Bucky had heard of, and several entirely new to him: there were, of course, the usual offerings like apple, pumpkin, and pecan, but also grape pie, peanut pie, Kentucky transparent pie, bourbon and walnut pie, vinegar pie (which Bucky knew well from the Good Old Days), mock apple pie, sweet potato pie, marionberry pie, blueberry pie, key lime pie, raisin pie, buttermilk pie, chess pie (a rare pie whose name did nothing to betray its contents), coconut cream pie, huckleberry pie, cherry pie, chocolate pie, French silk pie, cashew cream pie, ginger custard pie, potato pie, sour cream pie, mud pie, peanut butter pie, rhubarb pie, and one unfortunate baker who had misinterpreted the brief and made a plum cobbler.</p>
<p>“Shoulda worn stretchier pants,” said Bucky, patting Steve’s impeccably toned tummy. “You’re gonna have to make a lot of tasting space.”</p>
<p>Steve silently assessed the pies, and nodded. “I can handle it.”</p>
<p>Bucky smiled to himself. If there was one person he trusted to fight off the inevitable tummyache with aplomb – or at least pretend he was fine until he was about twelve pies past fine – it was his literal superhero husband.</p>
<p>As it happened, Bucky tapped out after an especially nutmeggy pumpkin pie (with a gorgeously complex dark rye crust) and Sam stepped in to mooch off of the rest of the free tastings. If Bucky had been able to move, he would have quite liked to spend a little more time saying hello to all the sweet little animals, but was content enough that he could see the sweet brood of hens preening themselves ahead of their beauty pageant – which was patently ridiculous, he thought, because they were all the number one best in show prettiest hens as far as anyone with sense ought to have been concerned.</p>
<p>At least he was pleased to know that, after what looked to be a rather heated discussion amongst the judges, Mrs. Charisse Bevington-Lee’s superlative raspberry and limoncello almond pie won first prize, and Steve spent the entire journey home clutching his tummy and insisting, quite rightly, that it was worth it.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“You sound like you miss Wakanda,” Beth observed, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I dunno,” Bucky shrugged. It was not that he did not feel most at home in Brooklyn, and it was certainly not as though he wanted to move away. “Kind of.”</p>
<p>“I mean, it looks gorgeous, and I’d love to visit,” she said, “though I get that’s pretty difficult to get there. And I don’t think they have Starbucks.”</p>
<p>Bucky smiled. “They don’t need Starbucks. They grow coffee. Actual, good coffee.”</p>
<p>Beth nodded.</p>
<p>“Coffee that you don’t need five ounces of caramel syrup and whipped cream to drink,” he continued.</p>
<p>“Wow,” replied Beth. “That’s the most vicious thing I’ve ever heard you say.”</p>
<p>“I mean, I don’t not wanna drink caramel and whipped cream too,” he said. “I miss... I miss the goats.”</p>
<p>Bucky loved those goats. He loved their little bleats and their silly little faces, and the way they jumped and the way they ate things and the way they trotted their way right into Bucky’s heart.</p>
<p>Beth set down her mug, and crossed her arms. “Okay, I have a suggestion, and I want you to hear me out because I think this could be good for you.”</p>
<p>Oh no, thought Bucky, his mind racing with all of the possible things it could be. “Sure,” he said, knowing that feigning casual interest in the face of intense concern was not always his strong suit these days.</p>
<p>“You know lots of people have therapy dogs, or other animals, and that can be really helpful for PTSD, anxiety, all kinds of stuff,” she said. “I mean, there’s no reason why a person wouldn’t hypothetically have a therapy goat, and bring that goat with them to their therapist appointments, and let their therapist pet the goat…”</p>
<p>A therapy goat, he thought. It was all Bucky could do to keep his eyebrows from furrowing into one megabrow. “Seriously?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely seriously,” replied Beth.</p>
<p>Bucky nodded. “Well, how about that.”</p>
<p>As for the logistics of goat ownership in the middle of Brooklyn, or whether Steve would readily agree to a four-legged roommate, was a whole other kettle of fish, of course. He might have considered it sooner, he thought, but he had long since known that a superhero’s life did not always run on a regular schedule, and to throw an unwitting little creature into that world of chaos and unpredictability and near-constant threat of danger felt too selfish even to dream of. But Steve had been retired from the business for a little while now, and showed no sign of any just-this-once returns to it. He seemed more at peace than Bucky had ever seen him. Maybe a therapy goat was not the most ludicrous of ideas. Maybe a therapy goat was possible.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hey Steve, remember how I used to knit us stuff for the winter?”</p><p>Bucky remembered them well: passing lengths of thick wool between two little wooden wands, the patterns were typically a bit rudimentary, and the wool a little itchy, but Bucky somehow managed, through a combination of mathematical wizardry and a touch of love, to transform those raw materials into something that felt as soft as being swaddled in silken cushions, and pretty damn handsome to boot. At least, he sure thought Steve looked handsome in them, and if the seams were a little lopsided and the material a little scratchy, Steve was polite enough not to complain.</p><p>“Oh yeah,” said Steve, carefully scraping the eraser over his page in progress. </p><p>Bucky had always loved to work with his hands, but his hands were always more rustically inclined than Steve’s. If Bucky ever caught himself idly daydreaming about Steve’s skilled hands, and the way those nimble fingers could turn graphite and cheap paper into the most evocative of vistas (and especially if his daydreams turned to thoughts of what other things such nimble fingers could accomplish if they turned their attentions towards Bucky) he tried to keep it to himself.</p><p>“Maybe I should take up knitting again,” suggested Bucky. “I bet I could get my hands on a hell of a lot nicer wool these days.”</p><p>“Say, whatever happened to the sheep meadow they used to have in Central Park?” asked Steve. “Didn’t they used to have sheep?”</p><p>Bucky could just about remember, when they would wander over the bridge to Manhattan on an idle day for a sandwich and a change of scenery, passing the flocks of fluffy sheep frolicking on the green in the park. It seemed almost so absurd a notion now, that it was a comfort to know it was not merely an invention of his own imagination, a piece of near-improbable filler fabricated by his mind to pad the parts of his memory that were still sometimes obscured by trauma.</p><p>“Probably a Duane Reade,” he replied, pausing to kiss Steve’s furrowed brow as he gathered their empty mugs to carry them into the kitchen, where Sam was packing up his portions of leftover pie into a neat stack of tupperwares. There were more dishes in the sink than he cared to leave there, which did not stop him from adding them to the pile. “Maybe a Starbucks.”</p><p>Steve chuckled softly, resuming his sketching. “Huh, typical.”</p><p>“You guys into sheep? Maybe you guys should visit my mom’s church,” suggested Sam.</p><p>As much as he disliked deploying his supposed murder-gaze (at least, that was what Sam called it) he levelled it as seriously as he could at Sam now.</p><p>“I’d consider your next sentence very carefully,” he said. “You’d better not be trying to convert your Jewish friend.”</p><p>“Nah, dude, I’m not trying to convert you,” Sam scoffed. “Hell, I don’t go to church. Why do I care? My mom’s church has some animals that graze in the gardens. Thought maybe you could volunteer some time to look after them.”</p><p>“What about the religion thing?” asked Bucky.</p><p>Sam shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t think the animals know what a church is. Just go hang out with some little fluffy sheep, okay?”</p><p>---</p><p>“Ah, welcome, welcome!” a robust, ruddy-cheeked woman clapped him heavily on the shoulder. “You must be here for the shearing. Always glad to have a few strong, skilled hands... to help with the sheep.”</p><p>“I... sheep,” stammered Steve, his face rapidly turning the colour of an exceptionally embarrassed strawberry. Bucky struggled to contain a giggle, as the woman waggled her eyebrows suggestively, leading them into the church gardens, where about half a dozen very fluffy sheep were minding their own sheepy business, dutifully nomming on the shaggier patches of grass.</p><p>“If you want to ease your way into the task, I’d start with Eunice, as she’s quite fond of a haircut,” the woman carried on, indicating  a sweet, pink-faced ewe with an especially fluffy coat of dark wool. “And don’t be alarmed by the size of Vesta – it’s all wool, you’ll see.”</p><p>“I think there must be some kind of – ” Steve’s protestation was cut off by a swift poke of Bucky’s elbow into his ribs.</p><p>“Steve, don’t sweat it,” he whispered. “This’ll be fun.”</p><p>“Look at you,” chuckled Steve. “Spend, what, four weeks as a temporary goatherd and now look who’s an expert on animal care.”</p><p>“You’re the one who suggested visiting the sheep church,” countered Bucky.</p><p>Steve gave Bucky’s shoulder an affectionate bump. “Thought you’d enjoy it.”</p><p>“I am,” Bucky smiled. “Now, you want to hold the clippers, or... Eunice?”</p><p>Steve stared at the sweet faced sheep, looking more lost than Bucky had ever seen him, then steeled himself with a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned to Bucky.</p><p>“Eunice,” he said. “I’ve jumped from a helicopter without a parachute, I can handle... some sheep.”</p><p>Bucky nodded, taking the clippers in hand, while Steve gently approached the ewe.</p><p>“Ok, easy now, attagirl, just a little haircut,” Steve assured her, as she attempted to wriggle out of his awkward embrace. “Buck, how the hell are you so cool about all this? Are you sure you’re from Brooklyn?”</p><p>“It’s not that different from when we were kids and our moms would give us haircuts,” he reasoned. Not that he had ever shorn sheep before. Perhaps, he was beginning to think, this was out of his depth after all. “Gotta be honest with you, I thought we were just going to see some sheep.”</p><p>Bucky switched on the clippers. Just like doing a beard trim, he thought, nice and easy. Eunice looked up at him, her expression seeming to say ‘I promise I’m more apprehensive about this situation even than you are because I have to live with whatever haircut you give me.’</p><p>Bucky took a deep breath, and began running the clippers carefully over Eunice’s soft wool, clearing what must have been a solid inch of fleece before</p><p>“Nope,” he declared, switching off the clippers. “Nope, nope, nope. I just can’t risk saddling this sweet lady with a shitty haircut, Steve.”</p><p>“Oh, thank god,” said Steve, letting Eunice wander off unshorn.</p><p>Bucky sat down on the grass, his shoulders slumped. Vesta, an adorable, dark-faced, pale-wooled lady, wandered over to him, butting him lightly in the shoulder.</p><p>“Thanks for the vote of confidence, ma’am, but it’s no good,” he sighed. “This was a stupid idea, it was all a stupid idea.”</p><p>“Come on, Buck, it was... okay, yeah, it was a stupid idea, but it was worth trying,” replied Steve. </p><p>“Sometimes I really don’t know what you see in my sorry ass,” he said. He had known since about 1930 that he had to be the luckiest son of a bitch to have Steve’s attention at all; indeed, Steve could have turned the heads of a fair few good women back in the day, had he been self-aware enough to notice them, and somehow he always found himself by Bucky’s side instead. How long, Bucky wondered, had they both held a secret little ember for each other before they came together and the kindling was lit?</p><p>“Hey,” protested Steve, “nothing sorry about that ass. It’s soft, but toned, it’s got a cute little freckle on the right cheek, it’s a thing of beauty. That ass is a gift from god.”</p><p>Bucky scoffed. “Didn’t think you believed in god, Rogers.”</p><p>Steve turned his gaze to the sky above them, little fluffy clouds mirroring the soft fleece of the unshorn sheep grazing all around them. “I don’t think I do,” he replied, “but it’s hard not to at least consider the possibility when your husband’s ass is a spiritual experience in itself.”</p><p>It was all Bucky could do to brush it off without letting the blush creep across his face. “You’re a fucking goof, ya punk. And keep your voice down, before the church burns us at the stake for heresy.”</p><p>“Hey, you’re the one who thought sheep haircuts in a church garden was a solid idea for a date.”</p><p>“I dunno,” Bucky smiled, raising a hand to Steve’s soft beard, “maybe this date’s not a total bust after all.”</p><p>Steve hummed happily against Bucky’s lips, once, then twice. “Hmm,” he murmured, winding his arms around Bucky’s waist, “you got me there.”</p><p>---</p><p>It was probably a few minutes later when two robust, ruddy-cheeked men in dungarees arrived to find Steve and Bucky reclining in the freshly sheep-mown grass of the churchyard, softly making out while a number of sheep mingled indifferently nearby.</p><p>It was then that Pat, the friendly farmer who had invited them in, immediately uninvited them. The pair shuffled out into the familiar streets of Lower Manhattan, arm in arm, laughing despite themselves.</p><p>“So my therapist mentioned something,” he said, as they passed an especially dapper men’s tailor shop, that bakery that put every possible snack food into cookie dough (and Bucky could not find it in himself to be mad about it), and an outpost of that one local coffee shop chain where the baristas always seemed like the presence of customers was a major imposition.</p><p>“Oh?” Steve’s surprise was not unexpected: it was rare that they spoke in any detail of their respective therapy days. For Bucky’s part, once he was done having a good chat with Beth, he was more than ready to move on from any of the heaviness he had been working through, ready to think about where to eat lunch.</p><p>He half suspected Steve might have spent most sessions sitting, hands folded, in semi-uncomfortable silence, waiting for the clock to tick down, while his hapless therapist used the time to organise her calendar, or work on a collection of warmly humourous essays she hoped to publish. But that was unfair, he scolded himself: after all, he was just as likely not to have wanted to open up to a random person with a relevant university degree and a comfortable office, but he had. Beth’s expertise, such as it was, was a useful resource, usually in helping him articulate things he more or less already knew, but needed a little help in knowing.</p><p>“Yeah, so…” he hesitated, glancing into the window of the incomprehensible ladies’ boutique as they passed. It was advertising the new season’s cashmere collection. Cashmere came from a type of goat. It was as good a sign as any. “She suggested... a therapy goat.”</p><p>“A therapy goat,” repeated Steve. “Like a goat therapist? Is there a goat who’s a qualified therapist? How is that better than a human therapist?”</p><p>“No, stupid,” replied Bucky. “Like a therapy dog, but a goat.”</p><p>“How was I supposed to know?” protested Steve. “We’ve got a friend who’s a raccoon, and I’m pretty sure I saw something on twitter about Squirrel Girl’s squirrel best friend sitting in on some of her grad school seminars.”</p><p>Okay, actually, that was fair, thought Bucky. “Okay, actually, that’s fair,” he said. “But also no. As far as I know, there aren’t any goats on the planet who are also qualified therapists, Steve.”</p><p>“Okay, okay.” Steve crossed his arms. “So, you’d visit goats, or – ”</p><p>Bucky cleared his throat, as they crossed the road into Little Italy. “More like a third roommate.”</p><p>Steve stopped dead in his tracks, in the middle of the sidewalk, in front of an extremely vintage but arguably overrated pizzeria.</p><p>“Just give me a minute,” he said, furrowing his brow as he processed the information. “Bucky. I love you, and you know I’ll support anything you need to heal. I just want you to be healthy and happy, and have a good life. So do we... do you want to pack up and start a farm?”</p><p>“Nope,” Bucky said truthfully. “For one thing, we paid way too good a price for this apartment to let it go so quickly. And it’s home. It could be home with a goat or two.”</p><p>Bucky did not wish to return to the country: it was nice to visit, but too slow, too quiet to be in forever. Somehow, the endless sounds and lights and activity of the city quieted his mind, where actual quietude sometimes had the unfortunate side effect of allowing the little crackles of dark static that sat at the corners of his awareness to amplify. Having enough to distract him, so his therapist said, was sometimes enough to allow those remaining subconscious, staticky corners to heal themselves.</p><p>Besides, the countryside did not have bodega breakfast sandwiches and his friends and buskers starting a dance party on a subway platform against all odds and bad public art and bodega cats and tourists in unflattering shorts having the times of their lives and locals complaining about the tourists and realising that you can walk some places in less time than it would take to cover the same distance by public transit and standing on line for brunch for two hours on Sunday mornings and dollar pizza and Steve.</p><p>Especially Steve.</p><p>“Buck,” Steve said carefully, as they sprinted down the stairs into the subway station, “I remember Wakanda, and the goats, and Geraldine.”</p><p>“Why would you say her name like that? Geraldine’s a goddamn ray of sunshine, and she loves you.” Geraldine <i>was</i> a goddamn ray of sunshine, he thought, if sunshine headbutted you in the leg at inopportune moments, tried to follow you everywhere you went, and bleated super loudly the second you fell asleep for your afternoon nap.</p><p>“Are we even allowed to have goats?” Steve led the way into the cramped train, taking Bucky by the hand and shimmying them past a group of elderly breakdancers to a pair of available seats.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Bucky told him. “I hope so.”</p><p>The rest of the journey home passed quietly, conversation turning to the state of public transit that day, and things they might have for dinner.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And another thing,” added Bucky, apropos of nothing as they packed the last of the groceries into the cupboards and refrigerator, “goats eat food scraps, so we’d be helping to reduce food waste.”</p><p>Steve watched him carefully, his expression turning into the tiniest of smiles. “You got me there, Buck,” he said. “You make a compelling argument. Or you would, if we didn’t have the ability to compost.”</p><p>“Look, I know there isn’t a ton of room in the apartment, but – ”</p><p>Bucky regretted the suggestion as soon as he said it. Goats did not belong in a Brooklyn apartment. He knew this, objectively, logically. He was struck wordless with the mental image of every cable, cushion, and houseplant nibbled to absolute ruin. There had to be a solution, he thought.</p><p>“We don’t have room for goats, Buck,” reasoned Steve. “We have... half a kitchen, and a balcony the two of us can just about squeeze onto.”</p><p>Bucky nodded sadly. There was barely room for a cat, or a puppy, or a couple of guinea pigs in their beautiful, cozy (albeit spacious by New York standards, probably) apartment. There was the living room (cozy), the bedroom (cuddly), the kitchen (fun-sized), the bathroom (a closet that you pee in), and... oh, thought Bucky. There was that, though.</p><p>“Steve.” Bucky batted his eyelashes at Steve with the kind of earnest seriousness that he hoped would have been reassuring to him, if not immediately persuasive. “There’s an entire rooftop that nobody’s using.”</p><p>“But Buck, that’s – ”</p><p>Bucky beckoned him closer, with a conspiratorial smile. “It’s free real estate.”</p><p>“Buck, it’s not free – ” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, “we’d have to ask permission to do anything up there. They’ve never even let anyone put plants up there.”</p><p>“It’s pretty perfect,” argued Bucky. “There’s an entire, massive park right across the street where we could take them to graze. Of course, I’ll have to scout out the best grazing spots with the most diverse grass types, and – ”</p><p>“Okay,” said Steve, with a heavy sigh. “Even if we somehow do get permission to keep goats on the roof, how do we goat-proof it?”</p><p>“Let’s take a look.”</p><p>It was then when Bucky realised how rare it was that he actually visited the roof: typically, it was reserved for those times when dreams or memories kept his mind from rest, when he needed fresh air and a clear view, when Steve would quietly follow him out with a blanket and a hot mug of ovaltine and a way out of his head, when there were too many things to say and therefore he could say nothing at all. It was strange to see it like this, then: on a pleasant late afternoon, it seemed an altogether different space.</p><p>The rooftop was a reasonably spacious, mostly flat area, with a few of the usual utility things poking out here and there, with a lovely view overlooking Prospect Park on one side, the funny, sloping hatch of a door, and the homes and businesses of their lovely neighbourhood besides. It was no Wakandan countryside, for sure.</p><p>He sighed. “You’re right,” he said, his shoulders dropping. It was not a pipe dream he wanted to let go of so easily, but there they were. “There isn’t enough space for them up here, and even if we put up the best Stark Fencing... I’d just worry they’d find a way to jump over it. You know they love to jump. You’ve seen Geraldine’s jumps. Track and field gold medalist, that lady.”</p><p>“Oh, I know,” chuckled Steve, draping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Look, Buck... I know your goats meant a lot to you, and I don’t know how we can... you sure you don’t want to move? Maybe get a place a little further out, somewhere with a backyard? Maybe... maybe out of the city?”</p><p>“Hell no,” replied Bucky. “This is our home, and I – it was a dumb idea, that’s all. Forget it.”</p><p>“Come on, Buck.”</p><p>Bucky leaned his head softly against Steve’s shoulder, gazing across into the park. “We could probably have a couple of hens up here, grow some plants to keep them happy…”</p><p>“We might get permission to grow plants,” conceded Steve. “But if we grew anything edible, we’d probably have to share with the neighbours.”</p><p>“Say, that’s an idea, though, don’t you think?” Bucky brightened at the thought of it. “A little vegetable patch up here? Vegetables don’t jump. Also makes good use of compost.”</p><p>Steve smiled. “Now you’re talking. Let’s have a look at getting some planters, and – ”</p><p>The rest of Steve’s plan was interrupted by an alarming thud behind them.</p><p>One would have thought that the makers of rooftop doors would have at some stage resolved to make them a little less breeze-proof, as the hilarious eventuality of said door slamming shut, leaving the roof’s occupants locked out of the building, was so much of a cliché that Bucky felt as though he were suddenly inside a terrible, semi-comedic short story penned by some hack who relied on terribly contrived comic tropes to drive the shenanigans.</p><p>“Well, shit.” Bucky sighed as heavily and loudly as he could. “Isn’t that just fuckin’ typical.”</p><p>“Ok, it’s just three floors,” said Steve, peering down at the pavement, arms crossed in serious superhero mode. “I think I can jump from here, get in the front door, let us back in.”</p><p>“Fuck, Steve, no,” protested Bucky. Images of Steve’s crumpled form lying broken on the sidewalk paraded past his mind’s eye. Sure, Steve was made of peak super-stuff, but it did little to diminish the gut-punch terror Bucky could not help but feel, the worry that this time was the time something would go wrong.</p><p>“It’s only three storeys,” reasoned Steve. “I’ve jumped – okay, and fallen – from worse. So have you.”</p><p>“Sure.” Bucky sighed, though he did not like it. “I’ll jump down, then, let myself in, get back up to – Steve.”</p><p>“Buck, no, let me – ”</p><p>“No, Steve,” replied Bucky, having realised a fairly significant flaw in their plan. “Don’t suppose you’ve got your keys on you.”</p><p>Steve shook his head. “Nah, we’re at home, why would I – aww fuck.”</p><p>Aww fuck indeed, thought Bucky. If this day had shown him anything, it was that a rooftop in Brooklyn was indeed no place to raise a herd of goats. He knew how intrepid those sweet little creatures could be, and although they were excellent jumpers, were not built to withstand a fall from the top of a three-storey walkup.</p><p>“I guess we live here now,” he shrugged, plopping down by the door.</p><p>Steve slumped down next to Bucky, brow furrowed with thought. “Nat’s got a spare key,” he said.</p><p>Bucky brightened at that. “Great, let’s just call her, and – Steve, is your phone in the apartment?”</p><p>“Mm-hmm,” confirmed Steve. “Charging. Yours?”</p><p>“Charging,” replied Bucky.</p><p>“So we can’t call Nat.”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“Guess if we had our phones, we could even get Seamless to deliver a ladder to the house, climb down the ladder, maybe hope a neighbour was in who’d let us call a locksmith,” suggested Steve.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“If we could climb down, we could go to Nat’s place, see if she’s at home, get the spare key.” Bucky leaned into Steve’s side, warm and strong.</p><p>Steve shook his head. “Do we... do we know Nat’s address?”</p><p>“Thought you must have been there once or twice.”</p><p>“I don’t think Nat’s invited any of us over the entire time I’ve known her,” replied Steve, letting his head fall onto Bucky’s shoulder. His hair was still soft from his morning shower, despite their misadventures, and smelled softly of that nonspecific fruity floral that shampoos seemed to be. “I think she lives in Hell’s Kitchen, but for all I know, that might have been a sneaky misdirect. She could live in Jersey City for all we know.”</p><p>“Sure as hell not walking to Jersey City tonight to find out,” replied Bucky. “Know who we need? Spider-Man. Where’s Spider-Man when you need him?”</p><p>“Probably doing his homework,” shrugged Steve.</p><p>“Kid should have a bat signal, you know, like Batman.”</p><p>“Batman’s a comic book character,” countered Steve. “Imagine the pandemonium that’d happen if somebody actually flashed a big bat light in the sky every time some crime went down.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” Bucky gazed out over the park across the road. “Why do they even need a big light in the sky for Batman? Doesn’t Batman have a phone?”</p><p>“I don’t really read that kind of comic these days,” said Steve. “Probably.”</p><p>“Yep,” said Bucky.</p><p>“It’s a nice evening,” said Steve, casually running his fingertips through Bucky’s soft beard.</p><p>“Yep,” said Bucky, shifting with Steve into a closer embrace.</p><p>“Could be worse places to be stuck,” murmured Steve, kissing his way across Bucky’s temples, then his jawline, then his lips.</p><p>“Yep,” said Bucky, his hands sliding beneath Steve’s shirt, across his belly, just beneath the waist of his too-tight jeans.</p><p>“Ohh, Bucky,” Steve gasped, stilling his hands, catching his breath. “We should probably save this for a less semi-public space.”</p><p>“Ah, the hell with it,” grumbled Bucky, rolling up his sleeves. “One of the sides of the building’s gotta be climb-down-able.”</p><p>Bucky wished that his plan did not involve punching out one of their windows, but there they were, he thought. He shimmied down first, hands clasped firmly against the edge of the rooftop, stretching down far enough to hop down safely and silently onto the balcony.</p><p>“Take my hand,” said Steve, clasping Bucky’s hands in his, then gently lowering him a little further.</p><p>“Ok, I think I can jump down from here.” Bucky could just about feel the balcony railings behind him. </p><p>“Oh, thank god,” replied Steve, his voice strained from the effort. “You’re not exactly light, you know.”</p><p>“Hey,” protested Bucky, even if he knew very well that despite his generally lean figure, the arm added a disproportionate heft to his overall weight. That being said, “I’ve seen you lift a helluva lot heavier stuff than me without breaking a sweat!”</p><p>“Just because I can doesn’t mean it’s pleasant,” replied Steve as he carefully let Bucky’s hands go, sending him stumbling backwards onto the roof. “Ow, fuck.”</p><p>“You ok up there?”</p><p>“Think I bruised my coccyx,” Steve groaned, shuffling himself legs-first over the edge, feet dangling down to meet Bucky’s waiting arms.</p><p>“Damn, Steve, how long have you had these socks?” asked Bucky, marvelling at the fact that the few worn threads stretched tight across the heel were still holding together.</p><p>“They’re perfectly good!”</p><p>“Sure they are, punk.” He grasped Steve’s legs to lower him onto the balcony. “You know we can afford new socks, right?”</p><p>It was well that they were both quite practiced at sneaky, stealthy super-skills, or they might have alerted the neighbours. He was not sure what he hated more: the thought of putting a fist through one of their beautiful living room windows, or the thought that if he could carefully open the window from the outside with his utility knife, they needed to fit a more secure set of French doors.</p><p>“Buck?” Steve’s hand was heavy and warm on his shoulder.</p><p>“If I just – ” It was not until he tried to speak again that he realised he had begun to cry.</p><p>“Hey, it’s okay,” Steve reassured him, folding Bucky into his arms. “Is... is this still about the goats?”</p><p>“I don’t – everything’s not okay right now,” Bucky mumbled into Steve’s comfortable sweater. “I don’t know why.”</p><p>“That’s okay,” Steve told him.</p><p>“I know. I’ll be all right.” Bucky sighed, turning again to the task of breaking and entering their own goddamn apartment. Resting a hand on the door handle as he puzzled his way through the best method of breaking in with the least damage, he gave it a little jiggle.</p><p>And just like that, the door clicked open.</p><p>“Well, fuck me,” marveled Steve, as they stepped back inside.</p><p>“With pleasure,” replied Bucky, kicking off his socks as he made a beeline for the bedroom.</p><p>---</p><p>“People are always asking me what my superpower is,” he said. “Because everybody else I know has a superpower, I guess.”</p><p>Beth nodded. “So what is your superpower?”</p><p>It was strange living in constant proximity to superpowers, to people who flew, moved stuff with their minds, got super tiny, or could pull helicopters out of the sky with their bare hands. It was strange, but perhaps it was more strange how normal it was to him now. Nothing about their lives were normal, but because it was their lives, it was normal to them. He still puzzled at what the hell was going on some of the time, but sometimes not knowing what the hell was going on was just Tuesday.</p><p>“Most people say it’s the arm,” he said, self-consciously rubbing his flesh hand against the joint of his metal elbow.</p><p>“Is the arm a superpower to you?”</p><p>Bucky was unsure whether his relationship to The Arm was complicated or not. As prosthetics went, it was remarkably sophisticated: its movement and the feedback it provided to his nervous system was near enough to that which a flesh arm could do, while having the benefit of enhanced strength and durability, and allowed him to withstand impacts and temperatures that would be incredibly painful if he attempted any of the same things with his other hand.</p><p>On the other hand... he had The Arm because he had lost an arm in exceptionally traumatic circumstances, and at times it was difficult not to be reminded of that every time he used that hand.<br/>
On the other, other hand, it had become so integrated into his body image that it was difficult to imagine himself without it – and indeed, during those rare periods when it was absent, awaiting replacement, or later, undergoing maintenance – he felt distinctly unbalanced, noticing its absence far more than he ever noticed its presence.</p><p>Ultimately, it was just his arm, he thought. It just happened to be a sophisticated, articulated assembly of metal and a lot of tech he did not have enough of the right university degrees to explain.</p><p>“I... no, I have the arm because I lost an arm,” he said, at last.</p><p>“Yeah, I think that’s what we in the medical community call a disability," Beth shrugged. "It’s cool to, like, not know how to feel about that sometimes.”</p><p>“Yeah. I mean, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but it’s fine. I mean.... Goddamn, you know what I mean.”</p><p>What even counted as a superpower, he asked himself. He was an expert marksman, but that came from the skills he learned before he had anything super done to him – and the last thing he wanted to be known as was a guy who was good at shooting stuff.</p><p>He was strong, sure – not quite Steve strong, but stronger than the average gym bro. He was pretty good at fighting, too, with feet and fists and knives. But that was nothing out of the ordinary in his world, and nothing to want to be known for.</p><p>“Think I might take up knitting again,” he told her. “I used to do it all the time, back in the day, made us socks, or a big scarf for Steve, or a cute hat for my sister. It... it always feels good to use my hands to do, you know, kind things. Especially since they…”</p><p>“I know,” Beth replied, sparing him needing to say it. “Hey, you know what I think your superpower is?”</p><p>“It’s not knitting,” replied Bucky, recalling some of his vintage efforts: if Becca had noticed the slight unevenness of the festive green pom-pom adorning the top of her cozy beret, she never said a word.</p><p>“Maybe your real superpower is here.” She leaned forward, poking him in the chest.</p><p>“... my nipple?”</p><p>“No, stupid, eww,” she cringed. “Your heart. That big thing under your ribcage there. Behind your nipple. What the fuck, man. Don’t be gross.”</p><p>“My heart’s pretty normal, all things considered,” he said.</p><p>“You sure about that?” Her left eyebrow was creeping dangerously close to her hairline. “You’ve told me about all the matzoh ball soups you made back in the day when Steve was under the weather, knitting things to keep your loved ones warm, the way you doted on your goats in Wakanda. All that, that’s not nothing.”</p><p>“It’s... that’s just being a person, isn’t it?”</p><p>“You wanna bet? Lots of people are assholes, Bucky,” she reasoned. “Maybe even most people. I don’t know. I haven’t read all the research. But you’re a pretty remarkable dude, my dude.”</p><p>Bucky shrugged. All he had ever wanted, really, was a nice, normal life, after all.</p><p>“Okay, listen, because I think I’m having a breakthrough <i>for</i> you here,” she continued. “With your knowledge, and your special skillset, when you got out of that shitty situation after all that time and all the shit you had did to you, you could have gone violent, hunted them down, got revenge, burned it all down. Real emo shit, you know? But you never did. I don’t know if a lot of superheroes would have done the same.”</p><p>“All I did for – what was it, two years? All I did was travel around, write down what I could remember, went to the movies,” he recalled. “Finding myself, I guess.”</p><p>“Yeah, you were healing,” she replied. “Being kind to yourself. You know,”</p><p>“Self-care,” they said in unison.</p><p>“Bingo,” she fingergunned. “Nurturing, kindness, a soft heart. Maybe that’s your superpower. There’s strength in softness. There’s strength in taking your super-strength and using it to give big hugs. This probably sounds corny, but – ”</p><p>“No, no, you know what? Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “That’s a nice way to think about it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Author's note, supplemental: PLEASE LAVISH ATTENTION AND PRAISE ON KIT'S AMAZING ART, WHICH I LOVE WITH EVERY FIBRE OF MY BEING. Ok cool, thank you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“A goat, you say?” asked Loki, still chewing on a mouthful of bagel. Bucky had to concede that yes, the bagels had been worth exiting the subway an extra stop before the park.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, as they turned onto the quieter, tree-lined street and the park came into view. </p>
<p>“You do know it’s illegal to keep a pet goat in New York City, don’t you?” asked Loki, picking a stray poppy seed from his teeth as they passed an overrated Italian restaurant.</p>
<p>“Wait, it’s - what the hell?” puzzled Bucky. It probably should have occurred to him to check on the legalities of such things, he thought, but hindsight, and all that jazz.</p>
<p>“Oh yes,” Loki continued. “Same goes for most of your Midgardian farm animals, I believe.”</p>
<p>“How the hell do you know?”</p>
<p>Loki smiled, in that way he had of smiling that perfectly broadcast that if there was trouble brewing, he was responsible.</p>
<p>“Mischief, darling,” he said.</p>
<p>“Okay.” Bucky shook his head. As if it would have been anything but mischief. But then, “Oh shit! Buddy, you’ve gotta not tell Steve.”</p>
<p>“Oh really?” Loki grinned. “Might there be a goat-shaped problem waiting for you at home?”</p>
<p>Bucky scrubbed at his beard. “No, I... might have got us trapped on the roof for a while, because of a theoretical goat.”</p>
<p>Loki screwed his brown paper napkin into a ball, tossing it into a nearly overfilled garbage can. “Well, my mother did always used to say, hypothetical goats are the most dangerous.”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“No, don’t be ridiculous,” Loki replied, as they approached the chess tables, where Bucky could see Loki’s partner engaged in what looked to be especially deep contemplation of his next move. “Hello, sunshine.”</p>
<p>“Well hey there, uhh, stardust,” the Grandmaster intoned, rising from his seat to take Loki’s hand, raising it slowly to his lips, kissing it for far, far too long. Bucky politely averted his gaze.</p>
<p>“Yes, well,” flustered Loki. “You remember my associate, Bucky.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes, of course. Nice to see you again, uhh, Binky.” The Grandmaster waved at him strangely. Perhaps, thought Bucky, he had still not quite got the hang of how Earth people waved. It was an admirable effort, all things considered.</p>
<p>“It’s Bucky,” said Bucky. He was still unsure whether the Grandmaster did this to everyone on purpose, an unnecessary assertion of dominance, or whether his countless millennia of existence made it hard to hold such little things in his memory.</p>
<p>Bucky could not begrudge anyone for memory troubles, after all.</p>
<p>“Bucky, right, right, I’ll, uhh, I’ll remember that for next time,” replied the Grandmaster. Bucky had every confidence that he would not. “This is my new friend, uhh, Ionut.”</p>
<p>Ionut was a slight, nervous bird of a man in a disconcertingly threadbare turtleneck, and whose tiny, wire-rimmed glasses were perched so far down the end of his nose that it seemed implausible that they had not yet fallen off.</p>
<p>“Hello,” he said, rising just enough from his seat to offer a surprisingly robust handshake.</p>
<p>“Sorry we’ll have to cut this short today, uhh, Ionut,” the Grandmaster smiled, “you see, I was, hmm, well, I was just about to, uhh, win this match. Quite spectacularly, quite spectacularly too, I must say.”</p>
<p>Ionut looked at Bucky, almost imperceptibly shaking his head.</p>
<p>“Of that I have no doubt, my love,” Loki said softly, as a smallish Afghan hound pranced up to him from an unseen location.</p>
<p>“Oh there you are, Hrothgar!” he smiled, gently retrieving something from the dog’s mouth. “Did you take my dear friend Bucky’s wallet? Bad dog!”</p>
<p>“What the hell?” puzzled Bucky, patting his jeans’ pockets, and finding them worryingly wallet-free.</p>
<p>“We’ve been through this,” Loki scolded the dog, handing the only slightly dog-drooled wallet back to Bucky. “You don’t steal wallets from friends, you steal wallets from billionaires, Republicans, and people who eat hard boiled eggs on public transport.”</p>
<p>Bucky shook his head fondly. He could not find it in himself to begrudge a dog so perfectly suited to its parents. “He’s smart. Cunning. Suits you.”</p>
<p>“And, uhh, that’s why we welcomed little Hrothgar here into our lives,” said the Grandmaster, lavishing the strange little dog with scritches. “Isn’t that right, Hrothgar? Who’s a, who’s a good dog? You are! Yes you are! Yes you are! You are!”</p>
<p>“Gotta say, you guys are real cute together.”</p>
<p>“Well, uhh, that’s awfully kind of you to say,” the Grandmaster blushed.</p>
<p>“I was mostly talking about the dog, but sure,” replied Bucky, giving Hrothgar a gentle pat behind his ears, as inspiration struck him upside the head with a plastic shovel.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“It’s good to see you, Shuri,” he said, as the princess came into view on his laptop.</p>
<p>“That’s Your Highness to you,” Shuri corrected him. “You would be well to remember you are speaking to the Princess of Wakanda. Peasant.”</p>
<p>Bucky flushed, ducking his head. They had been on familiar terms for so long, perhaps he was indeed apt to remember that his young friend was, in actual fact, actual royalty.</p>
<p>“Sorry, umm, Your Highness,” he corrected himself.</p>
<p>“That’s better.” She nodded curtly, letting a moment pass in silence before, to Bucky’s immense relief, bursting into a fit of joyful giggles. “Oh, I’m so sorry, that was probably what my mother would call an abuse of my station, but you should have seen your face!”</p>
<p>Bucky shook his head fondly. “It’s fine,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of Her Highness’ company today?”</p>
<p>“Just a little project I have been working on with a microbiologist you might know.”</p>
<p>A man appeared beside her, whom Bucky remembered was Babatunde, a farmer who looked after the pasture near Bucky’s former Wakandan residence. They had not spoken often, but he had always seemed a kind man.</p>
<p>“It is nice to see you again,” said Babatunde.</p>
<p>“You too,” replied Bucky.</p>
<p>“I have some news I wanted to share,” said Babatunde. “You may remember I mentioned a project Her Highness and I were working on together a while ago, which has at last produced measurable results.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Bucky replied. He recalled something about a facility with carefully controlled humidity and temperature controls, but had smiled and nodded his way through, unsure of the purpose of the projects.</p>
<p>“I’m pleased to let you know that our first batch of aged Wakandan goat’s cheese is now mature,” he smiled.</p>
<p>“Aged... goat’s... cheese?” Bucky gasped. He had had his share of goat’s milk in his time on the land, and sometimes the sort of fresh, strained cheese that was easy for a semi-seasoned home cook to master, but aged cheese was a whole other branch of very complicated microbe science about which he knew nothing.</p>
<p>“We are sending you half a dozen wheels, of course,” replied Babatunde. “You and Captain Rogers do like cheese, yes?”</p>
<p>Bucky nodded.</p>
<p>“Good. Oh! Yes, also,” Babatunde moved slightly out of frame for a moment, “there is someone here who wanted to see you.”</p>
<p>Suddenly, the familiar face of Geraldine appeared on the screen. It was all Bucky could do not to weep with joy.</p>
<p>“Hi Geraldine,” said Bucky.</p>
<p>“Behhhhhhhhhhhhh,” said Geraldine, and Bucky smiled with his whole heart.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Come on, you’ve gotta remember Zelda, right?” Bucky searched Steve’s face for confirmation. “From the old neighbourhood?”</p><p>Zelda Greenspan was built like a beautiful iron elephant, with the grace of a feathered gazelle. Not only could she be credited for teaching Bucky the fundamentals of boxing, she was also one of a very few girls Bucky ever went on a ‘date’ with: in a ploy to get his mother off his case about meeting a nice girl, Zelda Greenspan agreed to be his plus-one for an evening out. The dependable gal she was, she dutifully turned up on the Barnes doorstep – dressed to the nines in an outfit so dapper it put the perennially dapper Bucky to shame – then proceeded to spend the evening cutting a rug with the lovely Virginia McEwan, while Bucky sat at a small table with Steve, sipping a single goddamn gimlet out of a frilly china teacup because Steve Rogers Did Not Dance.</p><p>That little fawn-coated baby bull terrier staring up at them with eyes that sparkled with purity of heart was the spitting image of Zelda Greenspan.</p><p>“Stevie,” said Bucky. “You see it, don’t you?”</p><p>Steve regarded her carefully. “Zelda Greenspan’s ears weren’t as floppy,” he replied. “And she wasn’t normally naked, that I know of. And she also wasn’t a puppy.”</p><p>Bucky laughed softly. “Yeah, yeah, but... whaddya think?”</p><p>Steve looked at Bucky, then at Zelda, then back at Bucky. “Okay.”</p><p>“Okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, okay,” Steve smiled, curling an arm around Bucky’s waist. “Wow. Guess our family just got a little bigger.”</p><p>Bucky let out a slow breath, not knowing why he was quite so nervous, but knowing he was. “So we’re adopting a dog?”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess we’re adopting a dog,” replied Steve, audibly nervous. “Maybe we can set up a play-date with Hrothgar and Lucky when she’s settled in at home.”</p><p>“I love you, Stevie,” said Bucky, his heart brimming with emotion.</p><p>“Love you too, Buck.” Steve pressed a soft kiss into Bucky’s hair.</p><p>“Love you too, Zelda,” Bucky said to the dog.</p><p>Zelda let out a satisfied grunt, turned in a slow circle, and sat down on Bucky’s foot.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading so far! If you enjoyed this, do feel free to leave some kudos, and let us know what you thought in the comments below! You can also find the author <a href="http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com">here</a>, and the illustrator <a href="https://twitter.com/Hark_Bananas">here</a>. Thank you very much for reading, and have a lovely day.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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